Speech Returns

Guess what? Thursday was grey, cloudy and rainy. What a surprise. But I felt cozy inside and happy that I had the doily dress to finish. My progress has been slow; its finicky work but I liked how it developed. I worked all day with the windows open; the air smelt so clean and delicious.

I watched the PBS documentary on John James Audubon while I worked on my dress and I wept. I had no idea of how well, how powerfully and how beautifully he could write. Oh my God! What a guy. And, of course, his paintings are magnificent. But so is his story. And Lucy, his wife: What a woman is revealed in their correspondence and in her role in his success. I’m thoroughly smitten; he’s now part of my pantheon with Luther Burbank, Jeanne d’Arc, Oliver Sacks, Oscar Wilde and so many others.

In the evening, I worked at my desk and couldn’t leave it because the sun emerged and the setting sunlight felt so, so good. Shining in my eyes, I was transported to sunsets past in distant places. The memories are soul food. I thirst for heat and sunshine after this worst winter in ages; a misery intensified by my condition.

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I’ve decided that if I haven’t heard from Boca by next Wednesday that I will write to them to invite their formal rejection. When I adjudicated competitions, I always informed every applicant of the outcome. Boca should so the same but perhaps they just informed the “winner(s).”

Today’s Friday: It’s the best day for rejections so maybe I’ll hear something today.

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Beth arrives in just over two weeks. It’s going to be fabulous to have someone to play with. She has many friends to see and a conference to attend, but we’ll have lots of time to play together.

I’m going to be so ready for a playmate. I’ve been working alone all winter on my dresses. By the time she gets here, I’ll be well underway on dress number ten.

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Late last night, a reprieve: my speech came back. The crisis seems to have passed. I’m back to stuttering at about a forty percentile instead of at almost one hundred percent. That was weird. Four days of being mute for no apparent reason; that’s life with C-PTSD.